


left yourself behind (there’s no one left to mourn you)

by cyanspark



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Depression, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:22:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26175667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyanspark/pseuds/cyanspark
Summary: How Sébastien Le Livre became Booker.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 71





	left yourself behind (there’s no one left to mourn you)

**Author's Note:**

> I guess this is technically not canon-compliant since Booker probably took his name just to change his identity over time, plus I *think* the movie refers to him doing stuff with Andy/Joe/Nicky in the early 1800s, but this idea came to me one afternoon and I just had to write it.

They first find him in 1816, when his memories of the bitter Russian winter and Napoleon’s miserable invasion have begun to fade, the once-sharp edges worn soft with time. After he’s left the remnants of his old life ( _a convicted forger, a soldier hanged for desertion_ ) behind in Paris and reinvented himself in a quiet village ( _a bookseller, a husband, a father_ ). Sébastien hears his son’s chirping infant voice outside one morning babbling to strangers, strangers who speak French with unfamiliar accents, and he leaves the house to find him.

He freezes.

He knows these people—one woman, two men. He’s dreamed of them ever since his first death: the woman with eyes that have beheld centuries; the Muslim man with dark, curling hair; the other man with a faint smile and sea-green eyes.

Sébastien never thought they were real.

In his dreams, they have fought and killed and killed again. He’s seen them covered in the blood and guts of their enemies.

“Bastien,” he says, his voice coming out sharp.

His son toddles back to him. Sébastien picks him up and hands him to his wife, who has joined them outside, walking slowly because of her swollen stomach.

She opens her mouth to speak, her eyes full of concern, but he says, “Don’t worry, my love. Everything is fine. I’ll be back soon.”

He’s not worried for himself. Never for himself.

“Let’s talk somewhere private,” the woman says. Her voice carries the sureness of authority; it’s clear she is the leader. “I promise we’re not here to hurt anyone.”

That, of course, is a lie. As soon as he follows them to an isolated clearing, she turns and slits his throat with a dagger.

*

“Who the fuck are you people?” Sébastien snarls, after they’ve so rudely proven they know about his immortality.

The woman sighs. “I am Andromache the Scythian. Andrée, if you prefer. These two are Joseph and Nicolas.” She pauses. “And you are? We know your face, we know your first death was by hanging, but we don’t know your name.”

“My name is Sébastien Le Livre,” he says.

He learns that Joseph and Nicolas have been immortal since the First Crusade, and Andrée is even older. He learns that they roam the world, fighting for what they believe is right. He learns many things, and at the end, Andrée asks him to join them.

Sébastien shakes his head.

“I have a wife and children,” he says. “I will not leave them.”

The three of them share a look he cannot decipher.

“You understand,” Andrée says, “that you will eventually outlive your family.”

Sébastien’s throat tightens. He understands in theory, even if it is an idea he cannot yet truly grasp.

“Then I wish to spend as much time with them as I can,” he says determinedly.

“All right,” Andrée says.

And they leave him.

*

They find him again in 1860.

They find him nursing a bottle of wine, alone in his house. The house he’d shared with his wife. With his sons—

They find him after he’s tried drowning himself. Throwing himself off a cliff. After he’d woken up to find that his body had expelled the meat cleaver from his chest, and he’d screamed in anguish until his voice gave out, _Dieu, s’il vous plaît, laissez-moi mourir—_

“Sébastien?” Andrée says quietly.

He twitches. _Sébastien_ was what his wife called him. _Sébastien_ , she’d laughed, when he chased their little boys around the house. _Sébastien_ , she’d sobbed, when their firstborn, Bastien, had died. _Sébastien_ , she’d sighed, when she’d lain on her deathbed and he’d gripped her thin, pale hand in his and wept, telling her that he would give her all the years of his life if he could—

“What happened?”

It’s Nicolas’s voice, soft, with a slight Italian accent. Sébastien takes a swig of wine straight from the bottle and spreads his arms, gesturing grandly at the empty house.

“I’m alone,” he says, slurring slightly. “My family is gone.”

He avoids their eyes. He doesn’t want to see pity in their expressions, especially not in Nicolas or Joseph’s. They will never understand his pain, not when the one they love shares their immortality, and for a second white-hot fury flashes through him because it isn’t fair—

Andrée’s arms circle him, solid and warm.

“I’m so sorry,” she says.

The anger is suddenly gone, and all he feels is numb. As though he is trapped under ice.

He feels like he is dead, even though he is still breathing.

And that is the cruelest feeling of all.

*

He wordlessly follows them back to the hotel they’re staying at. It’s not as though he has any other option. Nicolas and Joseph try to offer comfort, but they are still close to strangers to him, and he can’t bear sympathy from the people who still have what he’s now lost.

Later that night, after Joseph and Nicolas have retired to bed, Andrée joins him where he sits by the window.

“Sébastien—”

“Please don’t call me that,” he says hoarsely.

He can’t bear being Sébastien Le Livre right now. He can’t bear being the man who turned his family into embittered, jealous husks, one by one. He can’t bear to be called by the names he once shared with the people he loved most in this world, all of whom are dead and gone and lying buried beneath the earth.

Andrée is quiet for a moment. “All right,” she says. “What would you like to be called?”

“Don’t know.” He shrugs listlessly. “Don’t care.”

Andrée sighs. She turns back to watch the moon hanging forlornly in the sky.

“We’re leaving for America tomorrow. I suppose you could have an English name.”

He notes that she didn’t even ask if he wanted to come. Then again, what choice did he have? It’s not ( _he almost lets out a hysterical sob_ ) as though he has any option other than to join them.

“Le Livre…” Andrée murmurs. “How about Booker?”

He shrugs again. It’s unimaginative, but he supposes it's as good as anything else.

“Booker.” Her hand finds his shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze. “Try to get some rest.”

*

Alone in the darkness, after everyone else has gone to sleep, Booker raises his flask of cognac to the moon, toasting his new name.

**Author's Note:**

> "Dieu, s’il vous plaît, laissez-moi mourir" = "God, please, let me die"


End file.
